Simic is one of my desert island poets...I've esteemed him with the best of 20th century
poets. I was surprised to learn he became laureate...guess I figured he was too good to be
honored by the US Government. Growing up under Nazi occupation would tend to attune
one to the eerie and fantastic. Always a plate of wilted mushrooms served by a
one legged dancer....a cornucopia of corn...nbd

Simic got the poet laureate job the other day. I never heard of him before. Some poet. So I been checking him out on the web. Reading his stuff. He has an interview where he quips. He might be a funny guy. Likes jazz. I might like him but first I need to pick him apart.

Against Winter

The truth is dark under your eyelids.What are you going to do about it?The birds are silent; there's no one to ask.All day long you'll squint at the gray sky.When the wind blows you'll shiver like straw.

A meek little lamb you grew your woolTill they came after you with huge shears.Flies hovered over open mouth,Then they, too, flew off like the leaves,The bare branches reached after them in vain.

Winter coming. Like the last heroic soldierOf a defeated army, you'll stay at your post,Head bared to the first snow flake.Till a neighbor ...

Pocket Theatre

Fingers in an overcoat pocket. Fingers sticking out of a black leather glove. The nails chewed raw. One play is called "Thieves' Market," another "Night in a Dime Museum." The fingers when they strip are like bewitching nude bathers or the fake wooden limbs in a cripple factory. No one ever sees the play: you put your hand in somebody else's pocket